


lab day blues

by scrambledhearts



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark Coparenting Peter Parker, May Parker is the best, No beta we die like mne, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, anyways hope you enjoy this em!, i actually have no idea how to tag this, not really but being sick counts i guess, that's not strictly related to the fic i just wanted to say that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-20 08:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30001737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrambledhearts/pseuds/scrambledhearts
Summary: “Kid, you’re burning up,” Tony tells him. Peter glares at him.“No, I’m not, you’re just an idiot.”Tony gasps theatrically, hand flying up to cover his mouth. “You dare speak to me this way?”“Yeah, I dare,” Peter says, “I dare so much. I’m the most daring darer to ever dare.”Peter then scrambles forward and vomits again.or: peter is sick, tony is worried, may is tired, and rhodey might just be the greatest friend of all time
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 97
Collections: Irondad_and_Spideyson





	lab day blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hold_our_destiny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hold_our_destiny/gifts).



> happy (late) birthday em! remember when i asked you what tropes you liked? yeah haha that was for this—surprise! idk if this is exactly the kind of thing that you meant, but i hope you enjoy regardless and that you have a fantastic day and an amazing year!

Tony isn’t worried.

He _isn’t_.

It’s just that Peter hasn’t showed up for their regularly scheduled lab days, and he isn’t responding to any of Tony’s messages, and last time he didn’t respond Peter was bleeding out—

Alright. So maybe he’s a _little_ worried.

It’s not like he’s being unreasonable—Peter has a history of having no self-preservation whatsoever. Last Thursday, Tony had gotten a text from him asking if it was safe to cauterize a wound with a candle, almost succeeding in sending Tony to an early death.

Tony scowls at his phone. Peter still hasn’t replied.

“FRIDAY, if anyone asks, I’m on a walk,” Tony says, getting up, “you know, getting that good old Vitamin D, and, uh, being healthy, that kind of crap.”

“With all due respect, boss, I doubt anyone will believe me if I tell them that,” FRIDAY replies dryly.

“You know what that sounds like? Not my problem.” Tony pauses. “Just kidding. I don’t know, tell them I went on a coffee run or something. Doesn’t really matter.”

“Sure thing, boss,” FRIDAY says. “I’m sure Colonel Rhodes will be happy to hear that you’re consuming just as much caffeine as usual.”

“Who told you it was okay for you to sass me?”

“You did,” FRIDAY chirps cheerfully.

“Did I? Huh.” Tony wipes his hands with a rag and gets up. “Don’t wait up.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

* * *

When Tony reaches the Parker’s apartment, the door’s locked. When nobody answers his knock, he picks the lock and closes the door behind him, flicking the light on. He can’t hear anyone, which is mildly concerning.

“Kid?” he calls, kicking his shoes off. There’s no answer. Tony frowns. “Pete?”

A muffled thump comes from the washroom. Tony hesitates, then grabs an umbrella from the stand and holds it in front of him before heading towards the sound. He waits at the door for a second, listening. He can hear someone inside, their breaths loud and wheezing. Tony’s grip on the umbrella tightens.

He throws the door open and immediately freezes.

Peter’s curled up next to the toilet. He looks like shit—his cheeks are sunken, nose red and eyes puffy, lips dry and chapped. The umbrella clatters as it hits the floor. Peter’s wide-eyed gaze meets his own shocked one. “Uh,” Tony says, “is this a bad time?”

Peter opens his mouth to say something, but then his eyes widen and he lurches forward, spitting bile into the toilet. Tony freezes for a second, before his brain kicks back into motion and he sits down on the floor, reaching over and rubbing the kid’s back. 

(Tony’s back hates him.)

Peter groans when he’s done, slumping back. Tony can _feel_ the heat radiating off him.

“That doesn’t look too good, kid,” Tony says, pulling Peter away from the toilet.

“Your _face_ doesn’t look too good,” Peter mutters, exhaustion painting every syllable. 

He sounds like he’s been gargling cheese graters. Tony tells him as much.

“I do _not,_ ” Peter says, sounding offended. Tony’s about to retort, but then Peter starts hacking—loud, harsh coughs that make _Tony’s_ chest hurt. When the coughs taper off, Tony frowns.

“You’re sick.”

“Am _not._ ”

Tony doesn’t even bother retorting, too worried by how warm the kid is. He brushes the kid’s hair out of his face and feels his forehead.

Peter’s _burning._

“Kid, you’re burning up,” Tony tells him. Peter glares at him.

“No, I’m not, you’re just an idiot.”

Tony gasps theatrically, hand flying up to cover his mouth. “You dare speak to me this way?”

“Yeah, I dare,” Peter says, “I dare so much. I’m the most daring darer to ever dare.”

Peter then scrambles forward and vomits again.

Tony squints. “I want to say that that’s proof you’re sick, but honestly that’s something you’d say even if you weren’t burning up.”

Peter’s too busy throwing up his guts to answer. Tony rubs circles between his shoulder blades and tries not to shudder when he thinks about how many germs he’s getting on him.

“So how long has this been going on?”

Peter wipes his mouth. “How long has what been going on?”

Tony gives him an incredulous look. “How long has this shitshow been going on?”

“Oh.” Peter scrunches his eyebrows together, like he’s thinking. His voice is barely more than a hoarse whisper, at this point. “My whole life has been a shitshow, ‘m going to have to ask you to elaborate.”

“Kid.” Tony can practically feel his soul leave his body. _This kid._ “How long have you been sick. Are you hurt?”

“No,” Peter groans, clutching his stomach. His skin is a sickly shade of yellow, and Tony can’t tell if it’s because of the fluorescent lights or because he’s just that sick. “Just today. Don’t know—” He stops and swallows thickly. “Don’t know why.”

“Okay,” Tony says, nodding to himself. “Okay, I can—”

Peter interrupts him by lunging forward and violently puking. Tony holds his hair back and waits him out, wincing at every hurl. It’s making _him_ feel sick. Peter starts to cry, a little, when he’s done, and Tony’s gut twists as he tugs him away from the toilet and leans him against the wall. He peeks at the toilet—there’s a gross yellow sludge in there, tinged with red. He doesn’t mention that to Peter.

“Does May know?” Tony asks, flushing the toilet. Peter shakes his head the tiniest bit, burying his head in his arms.

“Why’re you here,” Peter says, sounding like he’s speaking through clenched teeth.

“I was going to check up on you. Today’s lab day, remember?”

Peter groans. “Fuck. Forgot. Sorry.”

“Wow, that was almost a full sentence,” Tony replies, and immediately feels bad. “Sorry, kid.”

“Eh,” Peter says, then clutches his stomach. “Ugh. Fucking _flu_ season. Hate this time of the year. Always get sick.”

“Yeah, that usually sucks,” Tony agrees, then sighs. “God, what do I even do? I’m—kinda freaking out here, I have no idea what to do.”

“You’re the adult, ‘m pretty sure you’re not supposed to say shit like that,” Peter says, slurring a little. “Like. Supposed to—um. Supposed to reassure me.”

“What, you want a hug or something?” Tony asks, only half-joking. The thought of hugging someone so sick makes his skin crawl, but he’ll do it for Peter. The kid just groans again, shifting away from him.

“No,” Peter mumbles, “don’t want your—your old man germs on me. Ew.”

“ _My_ germs? Kid, have you seen yourself?”

Peter lifts his head just enough for Tony to see his smile. It makes him feel weirdly relieved. “No, too busy puking. Speakin’ of puking—might do it again.”

Peter’s prediction comes true. A couple of minutes later, he’s hunched over the toilet again. This time, nothing comes out, so the kid’s left dry heaving, shoulders shuddering as Tony keeps him upright.

“Sorry,” Peter murmurs, gripping the edges of the toilet seat as tears drip down his face. “Sorry.”

“Hey, kid,” Tony replies, “shut up. You can say sorry after, when you’re not puking your guts out. Besides, it’s not your fault. Everyone has these days.”

“So old,” Peter mumbles hazily. Tony feels inordinately offended. When Peter starts to gag again, he rubs the kid’s back, trying to figure out what to do.  
  
“Okay,” Tony says, pulling Peter away when he’s done. The kid’s eyelids are drooping shut—he’s probably only keeping his eyes open through sheer force of will. Tony snatches a towel off the counter and drops it onto the ground before gently laying Peter’s head on it. “Okay. What the fuck am I doing.”

“Mmmnmnf,” Peter says.

“Thanks, that’s really helpful,” Tony tells him. Is this what it was like for Rhodey, when Tony used to come into their dorm, reeking of alcohol and ridiculously drunk?

Wait.

_Rhodey._

Tony scrambles for his phone. “C’mon,” he says under his breath as he finds Rhodey’s contact, “c’mon, Rhodey, don’t leave me hanging.”

Rhodey, as always, comes through. Tony cheers silently when his best friend picks up.

“Hey, platypus,” Tony starts, “I need your help.”

“What is it this time?” Rhodey asks, exasperated. “Because I swear to god, if it’s like that time I accidentally left my phone on during a meeting—”

“No, no, no, no,” Tony says quickly, “it’s not like that. I may, uh, I may be kneeling on a bathroom floor after watching a teenager puke for like, ten minutes.”

To his credit, Rhodey takes the information in his stride. “Okay, uh—which teenager?”

“Peter—Parker. Peter Parker.” Tony looks at the kid, reaching out and brushing some hair off his forehead. “He threw up some blood before, but now he’s just dry heaving. He says he wasn’t hurt and that his aunt doesn’t know—I think he has a fever, he was burning up when I checked.”

“What’s the kid like now?”

“Uh,” Tony looks over at Peter again, “he’s not throwing up—the kid’s barely awake, to be honest, but I think he’s panicking—you know what, one second, honeybear.”

Tony wedges his phone between his ear and his shoulder, leaning over Peter.

“Hey, kid, you with me?”

“Mssr S’ark?” Peter murmurs, forehead scrunching up. He looks painfully young, and Tony has to swallow the lump in his throat. “‘m I dyin’?”

“You’re not dying,” Tony replies, his gut twisting at the thought, “you’re just sick. I wouldn’t let you die, anyways—wouldn’t want to face the wrath of your aunt.”

“Mmmm.” Peter licks his lips. “May. Love her. Love her so much. Tell May I love ‘er if I die.”

“You’re not dying, kid,” Tony says, reaching out and running his fingers through sticky hair. Peter leans into the touch. “Besides, she knows that anyways.”

The kid doesn’t reply, but he cracks a small smile. Tony keeps his hand where it is.

“Tones?” Rhodey says.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Listen, I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay,” Tony agrees. He pauses. “Hey, Rhodey?”

“Yeah?”

“Was _I_ like this at MIT?”

Rhodey laughs. “No—you were _so_ much worse.”

“Huh.” Tony chews his lip, absently carding his hand through Peter’s hair. “Thanks for taking care of me, Rhodey.”

“No problem, asshole,” Rhodey replies fondly. “Go back to the kid. I’ll be there in twenty.”

It's quiet for a couple of minutes after Rhodey hangs up, and then—

“ _Flu season_ ,” Peter says, in a tone of deep disgust. Tony sighs.

“Flu season,” he agrees, and wishes he wasn't quite so useless.

* * *

Peter has no idea what’s going on. All he knows is that he kind of wants to die.

Also, Tony’s here.

Tony had been running his hand through his hair. It was nice, but then Tony got up and left, so now Peter’s alone. He’s lying down on the floor, his head resting on something soft. The cold tiles feel nice against him—he’s so warm. So hot.

Someone—Tony—puts his hand on his forehead. He can’t help but lean into the touch with a sigh, not even protesting when he’s pulled upright.

Something cold and hard presses against his lips. Peter grumbles and tries to move away, but his body’s too heavy and he’s too tired, so he just turns his head to the side.

“Kid,” Tony says, sounding tired. He should probably sleep, if he’s as exhausted as he sounds. “You need to drink water.”

“Mm,” Peter mumbles, but he tips his head back and drinks. The water scrapes down his throat painfully, and his eyes are watering after only a couple of sips. Thankfully, Tony doesn’t force him to drink more when he moves away, so Peter takes that as a win, especially since even that small amount of water leaves his stomach clenched. He presses his face against the towel and takes deep breaths—through his mouth, because despite what he told Tony he’s sick and his nose is stuffed and everything is terrible—fighting the nausea.

“Rhodey will be here soon,” Tony says, smoothing a hand over Peter’s hair.

“Nice,” Peter rasps, through clenched teeth because he still feels like he’s going to throw up. “He’s…better.”

“Better? Than _me_?”

“Mm,” he agrees, when he’s sure that opening his mouth won’t end up in puking and a dirty floor. “Gives me cookies.”

Peter drifts, after that, but he catches Tony grumbling something about cookies and platypuses and favourites. A smile plays on his lips.

* * *

Peter must lose some time after that, because the next time he’s aware of something, he’s pretty sure he isn’t on the washroom floor anymore, if the soft cushions—seat?—he’s lying on are anything to go by. He can hear two people speaking, and he should probably be worried about that—stranger danger, street smarts, no secondary locations, all that crap, but the voices sound familiar, and he’s too tired to care anyways.

“—temperature was one hundred and three, it’s not good, Rhodey.”

“He’ll be fine, Tones.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t the one who had to watch him puke his guts out. He’s completely out of it, Rhodes.”

“ _Rhodes,_ huh?”

“There’s a sick kid in the backseat of this car, is this really the time?”

A snort. “Wow, never thought I’d see the day when Tony Stark would scold me about inappropriate timing.”

“Shut up.”

“…You’re really worried, huh?”

“No, I’m not. Who said that?”

“Your face.”

“ _Your_ face.”

“Oh my god, you’re a literal child.”

Someone huffs. “And you’re not?”

“I’m more mature than you, anyways.”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, Rhodey, do you remember that party in 1976? The one with the police officers?”

“…Look, we don’t talk about that.”

“Sure, I won’t mention when you—”

Peter is drifting again. He’s really, really tired. When was the last time he slept? It feels like forever. He can still hear the voices, but they’re muffled, like he’s hearing them through a wall of rushing water. They’re warm and familiar and soothing.

Peter thinks it’s safe to let go, just for a bit. Just until he feels better.

And then he’s asleep, warm in a way that only has to do a little with the fever he’s pretty sure he has.

* * *

When Peter’s eyes flutter open, Tony pretends not to be as relieved as he is. The kid’s been pretty out of it since he found him on the floor of his washroom.

That was yesterday afternoon.

“Kid?” Tony says, smoothing Peter’s hair back from his forehead. The kid furrows his eyebrows. “Kid, open your eyes.”

With what’s apparently a whole lot of effort, Peter forces his eyes fully open. “Where…?” he croaks, confusion plain in his voice.

“The Compound,” Tony says, handing him a cup of water. He waits until the kid finishes it before adding, “May just left—how come she didn’t know you were sick?”

“She was busy,” Peter mumbles, vaguely defensive. “How long?”

“About a day? I found you yesterday afternoon,” he replies, leaning back in his chair. “ _God_ , don’t do that to me again, you _know_ I have a heart condition.”

He’s joking. Mostly.

“You were ridiculously dehydrated,” Tony continues, “but we’re getting fluids and medicine into you. You’ll be fine.”

Peter’s already drifting off again, and even though he’s making a valiant effort to stay awake, it’s obvious he’s half asleep, so Tony reaches out and brushes some hair out of his eyes.

“Go to sleep, kid,” Tony tells him, more than a little fondly. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep watch. None of the monsters under the bed are going to come for you while I’m here.”

Peter’s asleep before he finishes his sentence.

* * *

The next time Peter wakes up, he feels less like a sack of shit.

Not by much. But still.

He feels kind of gross, actually. His fever must have gone down—the cold, sweat-soaked sheets support that theory.

“Kid?” Oh. Oh no, that’s—

“Peter?” May. She’s sitting by his side, hair pulled up in a bun. A couple of strands have escaped it, drifting around her face.

“Hi, May,” Peter croaks. It takes a surprising amount of energy, especially since he’s determinedly not looking at the person on the other side of his bed.

“Hi yourself,” May says, eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiles. “How’re you feeling?”

“Hngh,” Peter says.

“Yeah, that’s what I expected,” she agrees, leaning back in her chair. She looks relieved he’s awake. He wonders how long it’s been. “Almost two days now, sweetie. It’s ten.”

Huh. He must have spoken out loud.

“Hey.” There’s a tap on his head, and Peter has no choice but to look at Tony, now. He looks just as tired as May, but unlike her, Tony hasn’t even made an effort to look put-together. His shirt is covered in oil stains, hair messy, dark bags shadowing his eyes. He’s holding a steaming mug of coffee. “Gave me a bit of a scare there, kid.”

Peter shrugs. “Sorry. I heard Rhodey,” he adds.

“Yeah, he brought you here.” _Here_ being Avengers Compound, according to his hazy memories. “That was yesterday afternoon, by the way.”

“Huh,” Peter says. It’s both more and less time than he’d expected. He coughs a couple of times, and May rubs his back. It reminds him a little of Tony doing the same for him while he threw up. “Why were you in my apartment?”

“You didn’t show up for lab day,” Tony replies, taking a long, _long_ sip of his coffee. He shoves the cup in Peter’s face. “This stuff is god’s elixir, kid. I’d be dead without it. Smell it. Take it in. Behold its glory.”

“I can’t even smell,” Peter says, pushing it out of his face. His eyelids are sore. How do _eyelids_ get sore? He grabs the mug out of Tony’s hands and takes a long sniff, hoping it’ll wake him up. “When was the last time you slept?”

Tony sniffs. “Irrelevant.”

“Boys,” May reprimands, probably more fondly than she meant to be. “How come you didn’t call me, baby?”

Peter closes his eyes as he tightens his grip on the mug. Fucking eyelids. “It was…I felt fine, in the morning. And when I got back from school you were at work, and then after I started throwing up, I didn’t think it was too bad.”

“You were literally on the floor when I came,” Tony says.

“I _know_. I was going to call you when it got bad, but I couldn’t stop puking and I couldn’t get my phone, and then Mr. Stark came, so it didn’t matter.”

May purses her lips as she reaches out and brushes his hair away from his forehead. “Call me if anything like that ever happens again, okay?”

He knows he won’t. May’s always so busy, always so tired, overworked, and he knows how to take care of himself. He doesn’t need to bother her—and it isn’t just that, they need the money May brings in. “Okay,” he promises, anyways, knowing full well that he’ll break it. He thinks May knows, too, but she still looks relieved.

“Okay,” Tony says, clapping his hands together, “here’s what’s going on. You’ve got a pretty bad flu right now. We’ve got you on an IV that’s giving you fluids and medicines—it’s a fever reducer, in case you wanted to know. We’ll switch you to pills soon—and don’t worry, kid, I adjusted them for your metabolism, they’ll work fine. You were throwing up blood by the time Rhodey got to the apartment—”

“ _Blood_?” Peter interrupts, feeling panicked all of a sudden. “That’s—”

“Hey, let me finish,” Tony says, cutting him off. Peter gives him a mulish look but stays silent. “ _Thank_ you. Anyways, we’re pretty sure you ruptured your stomach lining. We’ve been monitoring you for any signs of internal bleeding but there haven’t been any. We’ll still be on the lookout, but you’re in the clear for now, Underoos.”

He slumps back into his pillows—and _wow,_ they’re really soft—feeling relieved. “Okay,” he says. “Do I need to do anything?”

“ _You_ ,” May says, pointing at him, “need to rest, and eat what Tony gives you—”

“Oh, it’s _Tony_ now, is it?”

“—shut up, Stark.” May swats Tony’s shoulder before returning her attention to Peter. “I need to go soon, but Tony will take care of you.”

“Will he, though?” Peter says, squinting at him. Tony looks offended.

“How _dare_ you assume I wouldn’t do everything in my power to make you get better, Spiderling? I’m hurt. Wounded, really. In fact—” Tony holds up a finger, and a second later, a single tear rolls down his cheek. Peter gapes at him.

“How’d you do that?” he demands.

“Typical,” May says at the same time, grinning a little. “Of course you know how to do something like that just to be dramatic.”

Tony shrugs. “I’ll tell you some other day,” he tells Peter. “Right now, there’s a baby Spiderling that needs some rest.”

“‘m not a baby,” Peter complains, but he lies down anyway. May ruffles his hair and leans over to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Get some sleep,” she tells him, standing up. “I larb you.”

“Larb you too, May,” he replies, watching her leave. He feels like he should be embarrassed about the fact that Tony’s watching them, but he isn’t, weirdly enough. He _is_ thoroughly humiliated now that he’s alone with Tony, because Iron Man literally watched him throw up yesterday and had to take care of him, and—

“Larb?” Tony asks, raising an eyebrow. “Actually, nevermind—you can tell me later. Just go to sleep and feel better. I’ll wake you up when there’s food.”

“Okay,” Peter says, because this might be Iron Man, but this is also Tony, who wears dirty t-shirts and chugs coffee like it’s his lifeline and talks to his bots and rubs Peter’s back while he throws up, and Peter trusts Tony. He can feel embarrassed about everything afterwards, when he doesn’t feel like roadkill.

That night, Peter sleeps pretty well.

**Author's Note:**

> so uhh em if you see this sorry this was late i thought your birthday was the 24th. hope you enjoyed tho!
> 
> thanks for reading! comments and kudos are always appreciated! come find me on [tumblr](https://scrambledhearts.tumblr.com/)!


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